


The Liberties You're Taking

by death_frisbee



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: A lot of feels, F/M, Family Feels, Fist Fights, Fluff and Angst, Meet-Cute, More accurately meet-try-hard, OTP Feels, Some subtext if you squint at Ernesto, Strained Friendships, Strained Relationships, Underage drinking I guess but does it count in 1917 Mexico??, slight canon divergence?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-09 12:43:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12888123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/death_frisbee/pseuds/death_frisbee
Summary: Héctor Rivera is content following his friend Ernesto to the ends of the earth in search of fame and fortune. But a hint of a song from Santa Cecilia's coldest woman sends him way off track...and toward a life that's worth more than all the money and recognition in the world.





	The Liberties You're Taking

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the Hector and Imelda meet-cute that's a result of me having 0 self-control.

                If you made the trip to Santa Cecilia, it’d be a miracle if you could get through without encountering Mexico’s two most spirited mariachis. Ernesto de la Cruz and Héctor Rivera had been practically assaulting the plaza with their performances since they’d first gotten a guitar in their respective hands, and it’s still a miracle how neither of them got into (too much) trouble.

                Most people decided it was by virtue of their charms. Ernesto was movie-star material with his strong jaw and smoldering eyes, and Héctor…well, Héctor was Héctor. He didn’t have Ernesto’s looks—unless you asked _him_ , of course—and his limbs seemed to have a mind of their own whenever he was on-stage. That said, the sheer _joy_ he had while performing was enough to draw eyes to him—his smile was probably the biggest and most infectious one in all of Santa Cecilia. And, of course, he provided the music.

                See, for all of Ernesto’s charm, for all of his powerful voice and confident stage presence, he actually wasn’t all that great of a musician. Oh, he could play his guitar, and play it well…provided he had music to learn from. But sounds didn’t stick naturally in his head. _Héctor’s_ head, meanwhile, was full of songs—the most inspired of which ended up scribbled in a beaten notebook he’d kept on him for year _s_ —and he was known for being able to play a song after just hearing it _once._ That sort of made up for the gangly limbs and _just_ half-decent singing voice.

But, when he and Ernesto worked together, it was _magic._

                So when they were performing, they were stars. When they weren’t, they were (sometimes) likeable layabouts with their heads in the clouds. No families to speak of, no real roots aside from their little “Casita de la Música”—which was little more than a shack that _just_ had enough room for two beds—and dreams of the fame and fortune that would come when they made it big.

                Of course, they had to actually _make it_ first.

                Oh, certainly, they were _trying_. Ernesto, charmer that he was, managed to find friends who had friends off in the big cities, and at least once a month, they hopped on the back of a train in their best mariachi suits and, if Ernesto was particularly suave and if Héctor’s quick-talking actually worked, they got all the way to their gigs without getting kicked off. But then it was always back to Santa Cecilia and back to the square.

                “We need to get out of this town,” Ernesto complained one night after a late train ride home. He dropped onto the steps of the plaza’s mirador, too weary to make it all the way back to their house. “It’s suffocating us.”

                Héctor dropped down lightly beside him, plucking idly at his guitar strings. “You know, you keep saying that right after spending a day saying ‘No one’s listening, let’s go home.’ These are some pretty mixed signals, amigo.”

                “And then I remember that no one listens _here_ , either.” Ernesto dragged a hand down his face. “What’s wrong with us, Héctor? We should be the most famous names in Mexico by now, but we’re stuck in _Santa Cecilia_ of all places. Did we make God angry or something?”

                “Oh, no, God loves us. That’s the only way we’re still alive after all we get up to.” Héctor snapped his fingers. “No, I’ve got it. Remember when you knocked over the offerings on Señor Olguin’s grave last Día de Muertos? You made him angry, and now everyone thinks we’re layabouts.”

                “They’ve always thought we were layabouts.”

                “ _Ay_ , really? And you didn’t _tell_ me?” Héctor leaned against him with a sigh. “Some amigo you are. I thought all well-respected young men got chased around by angry mamás and booted off trains. Now I feel like a real ass.”

                 Ernesto shoved him off. “Can you be serious for ten minutes? This is our _future_ at stake, Héctor!”

                “There’s still plenty of future ahead, Ernesto. For now, we have our music, most of a roof over our head, and enough people pitying us that we don’t starve.” He pulled himself up to lay back on the mirador’s floor, still plucking a nonsense tune on his guitar as he shut his eyes. “What’s that thing you keep saying? The phrase that took you two weeks to come up with?”

                Ernesto sighed, pulling himself up to lay beside Héctor. “We need to seize our moment.”

                “And clearly our moment hasn’t come, so we’ll seize it when it does.”

                Ernesto let out an irritated noise, prompting Héctor to peek open an eye. “But I’m _done_ waiting! I mean, just think of it…” He held up his hands, as if framing the future above them. “Ernesto y Héctor! The greatest musicians in Mexican history!”

                Héctor glanced at him, then shrugged. “I think it’ll be _Héctor y Ernesto_ , but whatever helps you sleep at night, muchacho.”

                Ernesto ignored him, eyes starry as he laid out their future. “We’ll be rich! And _everyone_ will love us! We’ll get out of this god-forsaken little town and live the rest of our days surrounded by adoring fans and bright lights, and then we’ll do the same in the afterlife!”

                “You thought that far, huh?”

                “Of course!” Ernesto turned his head to send him a bright smile, and Héctor laughed.

                “All right, fair enough. I can see it, actually. Everyone putting us up on their ofrenda every Día de Muertos because they’re still heartbroken over us.” He nudged Ernesto. “Who needs relatives when the whole world’s our familia, huh?” He let out another airy chuckle as he shut his eyes again. “Ernesto y Héctor, the greatest musicians to ever live _and_ die. Perfecto.”

They’d had this sort of conversation before, of course. And, for all that it bothered Ernesto that fame was still out of reach, Héctor didn’t mind all that much. Fame sounded _good_ , certainly, but honestly, he was happy enough just to have his guitar and his notebook. He could go along like this—gig to gig, a little hungry and worn but doing what he loved with his best friend—until he died.

                But then _she_ came along, and that’s when things shifted.

~

                He’d seen her before, of course—everyone had seen everyone in Santa Cecilia—but he’d never thought much of her. She was beautiful, yes, but with her head held high and her eyes steadfastly focused on her task, there wasn’t much use in trying to get her attention. Besides, there were always girls hovering around Ernesto, and he was _very_ good at consoling them when they were inevitably turned down. There was no need to focus on one woman who wanted nothing to do with him.

                But then…then she _sang_ , and everything changed.

                The first time he heard her, he couldn’t even figure out the song she was singing. But the richness, the sheer _power_ in her voice coursed through the air and struck him right in the heartstrings, holding him fast and tugging him toward the source.  When he saw that it was _her_ , he stared for a solid minute. _This_ was the singer? The woman who wouldn’t even _glance_ at the mariachis in the square? She wasn’t even looking at him now, when he was _right there!_

                Well, time to fix that.

                He listened to her for a moment, then picked out the tune and played along with her. Startled by her sudden accompaniment, she looked up at him, then rolled her eyes once she realized who he was.

                “I haven’t got time for you, Mariachi.” She nodded toward the girls still hovering around Ernesto. “There are plenty of girls who are willing to waste their time on vagos who can strum a little. I’m not one of them.” She gathered her basket of groceries, sending him a withering look. “So goodbye, Mariachi,” she said sharply, then turned and started walking away.

                He blinked at the rapid-fire dismissal. Later, he thought of several excellent comebacks, mostly having to do with how hard he and Ernesto worked and how he could _definitely_ do more than strum a little and anyway, those girls didn’t sing like she did.

                What he managed to get out, though, was simply, “Most people call me Héctor!”

~

                The benefit of living in a tiny place like Santa Cecilia was that, after asking one or two people, you could find out the entire life story of anyone in the town. So a talk with the local panadero, who was fast friends with the herrero _,_ whose sister had married the granjero just outside of town, told him that the lovely singer was none other than the granjero’s eldest daughter, Imelda. She had all the warmth of a snowstorm, they said, and was known to wield a nasty boot if she deemed necessary.

                “Qué pena _,_ ” the panadero sighed. “With that face and that voice, she could be a star. But that coldness just takes away her charms.” He glanced up at Héctor, then laughed at the look on his face. “Don’t even _start_ thinking about it, muchacho. She won’t even look at _Ernesto_ ; even with your fancy guitar playing, you don’t stand a chance.” He leaned against his counter. “Now are you actually buying something, or is today another ‘please, just a stale loaf until my next gig’ day?”

                Héctor shook his head, uncharacteristically quiet as he thought, before he turned and left. The coldness takes away her charms…bah, what nonsense. Someone with a voice like that loved music—probably as much as he did—and music lovers were quick to fall in love. He could win her over. He’d find a way.

~

                The next time she came through, he knew the song she was singing. He broke away from Ernesto, ignoring when his friend called his name, and trailed after her.

“ _En lo alto de la abrupta serranía_

_acampado se encontraba un regimiento_

_y una moza que valiente los seguía_

_locamente enamorada del sargento.”_

                He quickly began to accompany her—musically and walking-wise—as she walked through the square. She glanced up at him, then gave him a scowl. He raised his eyebrows and gave her his most charming grin. She shook her head and turned back around, continuing as if he weren’t there.

“ _Popular entre la tropa era Adelita_

_la mujer que el sargento idolatraba_

_que ademas de ser valiente era bonita_

_que hasta el mismo coronel la respetaba._

_Y se oía, que decía, aquel que tanto la quería:_ ”

                He saw his chance and sang back:

“ _Y si Adelita quisiera ser mi esposa_

_Y si Adelita ya fuera mi mujer_

_le compraría un vestido de seda_

_para llevarla a bailar al cuartel._ ”

                Imelda turned to look at him again, dark eyes wide. After a moment, she scoffed.

                “You skipped a whole verse.”

                “Ah, see, that’s where you lack the musician’s knowledge,” he said, still strumming as he followed her through the square. “Sometimes, you need to edit the music to better fit the situation.”

                “Oh? And what’s this situation?”

                “Well, clearly I’m letting you know that if you marry me, you’ll be dressed in the finest silks, and we’d dance every night.” He stopped and nodded up to the sastre’s window. “I’ll get you beautiful dresses like this one, the exact color of the sky.”

                Imelda looked up at the window, unimpressed. “Oh, good. I’ve always loved how red the sky is,” she said dryly.

                “Wait, what?” Héctor’s head swiveled, and he gaped at the red dress in the window. “ _Ay_ , qué pesado! That jerk switched dresses on me.” He turned back. “Well, even if the sky…”

                _Ah._ Imelda was already gone.

                He looked around, just barely catching the swish of her skirt as she rounded a corner. He could possibly run after her…but he’d heard how deadly her swing was. Maybe save that for another wooing attempt.

                With a sigh, he adjusted his grip on his guitar before returning to the square. He waved to Ernesto, a little dejected, and was surprised by how quickly his friend was at his side.

                “Dios mio, I’m glad you’re back,” he said under his breath as he gripped his shoulder. “We’ve got five people who want ‘The World Es Mi Famlia’ and _you_ still haven’t shown me…” He trailed off as Héctor shrugged off his hand. “What, did that girl you were chasing turn you down?”

                “I’m not _chasing_ her. I’m just…” Héctor glanced up at Ernesto’s look, and he puffed out a breath. “ _Yes_. But it wasn’t an outright rejection and I think—” He stopped, interrupted by Ernesto’s laugh, and puffed as he stood up straight. “What?”

                “Héctor, my friend, you’re a _romantic._ You’re in love with love.” He draped an arm over Héctor’s thin shoulders, guiding him back to the plaza. “Remember Sofia? And Carmen?” As Héctor pinched the bridge of his nose, he added, “And, _ay_ , remember _Luciana?_ ”

                “Hey, we agreed we’re _never_ talking about Luciana.”

                Ernesto gave him a knowing smile. “And soon, we’ll agree that we’re not talking about Imelda. Let her go, amigo.” He nodded to the small crowd ahead. “For now, we need to focus on just Ernesto y Héctor. Our moment’s going to come soon, I can _feel_ it. But you won’t be able to grab onto it if you’re too busy with a fling.”

                Héctor let out a breath, shoulders slumping. This _wasn’t_ a fling, though. He’d talked to Imelda all of two times, yes, but there was _something_ in her that pulled him. He had to find out what that _something_ was before he gave up.

~

                Another trip to a big city comes and goes before Héctor sees Imelda again. He and Ernesto—still in their best suits after a surprisingly lucrative trip—had just hopped off the train when he caught a glimpse of her heading to the plaza. He wasted no time, just barely keeping a hold of his sombrero as he ran after her. She was singing—she had a slight sway in her step that told him so—and the moment he heard the tune he started to play. She didn’t glance at him as she continued.

“ _Tengo un cachito de tierra_

_para hacerte tu casita_

_cubierta de enredaderas,_

_y hay duraznos en la huerta_

_y peras en la ladera_

_para ti, mi dulce amor._

_Y en la montaña se ve_

_una casita blanquear—”_

                He quickened his pace to step in front of her as he finished:

“— _y a tu ventana se asoma_

 _tu carita angelical!_ ”

                Imelda stopped, eyebrows raised, then made a dismissive noise as she waved at his outfit. “I see you’re even more trussed up than usual.”

                Héctor grinned, arching an eyebrow at her. “Qué guapo, eh?”

                “Is that what they’re calling scarecrows these days?” Imelda quipped as she stepped around him. He quickly turned to keep up with her.

                “All right, so we can’t all be…” He lifted his head and did his best imitation of Ernesto’s confident smile, and he _swore_ Imelda fought a smile. “But the crows _do_ tell me that I’m very handsome for a scarecrow.”

                “Oh, do they?”

                “Well, they did. Lately, they’re a little mad at me; I keep scaring them off because I can’t stop calling, ‘ _Ay, Imelda! La diosa de mi corazón!_ ’” he cried, gripping his heart for dramatic effect, then shrugged. “They get so jealous they can’t even look at me.”

                “Well, then, the crows and I are in good company,” she said with a little smirk, stopping at a stall to inspect the vegetables keenly.

                “Of course you are. You’re both with me.”

                Imelda blinked, and the irritation of having walked into that was clear on her face. She waved a hand at him. “Go home, Héctor. I don’t have time for nonsense.”

                His eyebrows rose. _Ah_ , so she remembered his name. There was one small win, so maybe…

                “Come watch me and Ernesto play,” he said. She stood up straight.

                “ _What_?”

                “Unless you want to perform with us? I’ve always thought we could do with a woman’s voice in our group.”

                Imelda sniffed. “I don’t want anything to do with _any_ mariachi. My mother warned me for _years_ that they were good-for-nothings, and you’re not changing my mind, Héctor Rivera.”

                _Ah._ She knew _both_ of his names.

                “Well, all right. If you want to follow your mother’s wishes, I can’t stop you. But…well, don’t you want _proof_ that we’re good-for-nothings? You can’t know for sure unless you see us play.”

                Imelda looked heavenward and muttered under her breath; it sounded like she was asking God for strength. “If I watch one song, will you let me finish my errands in peace?”

                “Sí, _claro!_ Though if you fall in love with me during our set, that’s your own fault,” he said with a wink before heading back to Ernesto, who seemed none too pleased.

                “Oh, are you back now? How are we supposed to do anything if you go running off like a madman?” Ernesto hissed when he was back at his side. “What was that—"

                “Ernesto, mi amigo, it’s time to give it all we’ve got,” he interrupted with a whisper. He grinned and nodded subtly toward Imelda as she walked over. “I’ve got us a prime audience.”

                Ernesto’s eyes slid over to Imelda, and an unreadable look crossed his face before he looked back at Héctor. He pressed his lips together and sighed, then gave a smile and a nod before nudging his side.

                “I know I’ve said I’d move heaven and earth for you, Héctor, but I never thought I’d actually have to _do_ it.” He shrugged, shoulders a little stiff. “But let’s see if we can melt your ice princess.”

                Héctor gave a huge grin, giving Ernesto a good-natured shove before letting out a loud, bright grito that echoed throughout the square as he started to play. Ernesto joined in, and he was quick to pick up singing when he caught the first few chords of “The World Es Mi Familia”— it might have been a little overplayed today, but if Imelda was only going to stay for one song, it might as well be one Héctor had written, right?

                Ordinarily, Héctor would just sink into the performance and completely forget about the audience, but today had no ordinary audience. He kept sending grins and winks Imelda’s way. She continuously rolled her eyes. But, he noticed, her eyes never left him throughout the entire song. So there was another little victory, which he celebrated then and there with another grito _._

                A sizeable crowd had gathered by the time they finished, and Ernesto was already playing toward them with his grand introduction of the two of them. Héctor, meanwhile, looked to Imelda. He couldn’t read her expression—that seemed to be a theme today—but it _seemed_ like she was chewing her lip thoughtfully. He raised his eyebrows at her; she shrugged and gave him a look that said, _Well, I did what I promised._ She turned and started walking away; Héctor’s heart dropped down to his feet. She stopped, though, and turned back around; his heart shot right up to his throat as she walked toward him. He quickly walked up to meet her, eyes wide and hopeful before he put on his most charming grin.

                “Not a good-for-nothing, then, right?”

                “Mm, no, you’re still a good-for-nothing mariachi.” She gave a light shrug and Héctor could almost, _almost_ see a smile curve her lips. “But at least you can actually play.”

                She gave him a short wave before she turned and headed back toward the market. Héctor watched her go, a slow smile spreading across his face.

                “Héctor? Did you hear that?”

                He was promptly brought back to earth as Ernesto set a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at his friend, who gave him a curious smile.

                “We’ve got a request for ‘Tristezas’. Are you ready?”

                Héctor gave him a bright grin before giving his guitar a strum. “I’ve never been more ready in my _life_.”

~

                Héctor started considering Imelda his good luck charm. Well, she wasn’t budging on her stance on mariachis—and, by extension, him—but he’d never been so inspired in his life. He had four new songs within the month—longing songs, some hopeful and some desperate—and they were getting popular in the plaza. And Ernesto was getting them more and more gigs in other cities, often one after the other—their most recent trip had lasted five days, and they had enough money to _actually buy_ two train tickets back home.

                Their upward momentum took a pause, though, on Día de Muertos _,_ for tradition’s sake. With neither of them having any family immediately around/willing to associate with them, they’d spent the holiday together for years, hidden away in a forgotten corner of the cemetery with a bottle of tequila—specially saved for that day—and a plate each loaded up with food from Señora Collado, who, despite her staunch disapproval of them for 363 out of the 365 days of the year, always grew sentimental around this time and cooed, “ _Ayyy_ , pobrecitos, you two shouldn’t go hungry tonight. Here, have this,” as she shoved food at them. 

                This was one of Héctor’s favorite nights of the year. Even without his own family, it was nice seeing others come out to honor their ancestors. What was nicer still was he and Ernesto having one night to talk about things aside from their future success. Ernesto was his best friend, yes, but he also had a one-track mind. A full stomach and a few slugs from their bottle, though, tempered him a little bit, and the conversation ran everywhere from “What do you think happens when we die?” to idle town gossip to arguing over whether the girls from Ocotlán were prettier than the ones from Guadalajara to telling each other how grateful they were for each other.

                “I’m serious, Héctor! No one but you would ever think this…” Ernesto waved his hand vaguely to try and convey the whole of their attempts to get famous, “…would actually work.” He sighed, falling back to lay on their ratty blanket and staring up at the sky. “Most people just say, ‘ _Ay_ , Ernesto, settle down, find a girl. That’s all you really need.’ But it’s _not_. I can’t spend my life tied to _one person_.” He looked up at Héctor. “You, though. You understand so much you wrote a song about it.” He frowned suddenly. “Not that you’ll give pobre Ernesto the music for it.”

                Héctor laughed. “I figure you only keep me around for my stunning good looks or my songwriting. Can’t take a chance losing either,” he said with a wink.

                “ _Héctor._ You think your best friend is so shallow?”

                Héctor laughed and shook his head. “The truth is my writing’s a mess.” He took a quick sip from his glass. “When I clean it up, I’ll give pobre Ernesto a copy.”

                Ernesto smiled and pat the closest bit of Héctor he could find. “ _Gracias,_ amigo.” He looked up at Héctor again, only to frown as he realized that Héctor’s attention was elsewhere. He pulled himself up, huffing as he saw what had caught his friend’s eye. Imelda, serious and beautiful in purple, had just entered the graveyard with her family. “I don’t like her.”

                “What?” Héctor didn’t move his head.

                “I don’t like that woman. She’s already holding you back and she doesn’t even _like_ you.”

                “ _Pff._ She’s not holding me back, and she _definitely_ likes me. She’s just…not admitting it yet.”

                Ernesto groaned and pressed a hand to his forehead. “You’re always like this. You get completely loco over a girl and can’t focus at all.”

                Héctor gave a wry smile. “Just _un poco_ loco.”

                “Well, in this case, it’s completely.” Ernesto sat up with a huff. “She just sees you like any other mariachi. She doesn’t see the _genius_ in you. If you end up winning her over, it’ll be because _you_ changed, not her.”

                Héctor laughed. “I think the drinks got to you, muchacho _._ Don’t be so stupid.”

                Ernesto’s look didn’t lighten, and he muttered something like, “It’s not _me_ that’s stupid,” under his breath.

                “What was that?”

                “Hey, mira mira!” Ernesto gripped Héctor’s arm and pointed up, eyes wide and bright. “The fireworks are starting!”

                Héctor sent his friend a strange look, but shrugged it off with a smile as he sat back to watch the fireworks. They always were Ernesto’s favorite part of the night.

                As for him…well, fireworks were great and all, but his eyes kept sliding back to Imelda. There was no way she saw him the same as any other mariachi. Right?

                Right.

~

                Foot traffic in the plaza was usually slow the day after Día de Muertos. There was cleaning up to do, families to still visit with, and—for Ernesto, at least—hangovers to sleep off. It was just as well; as much as Héctor loved to perform, spending a quieter day picking out new tunes was just what he needed. There was one song _just_ at the tip of his fingers, and if he could just figure out the words to go with it, he was sure it’d be a hit.

                Usually, when he had these days, he was able to just shut his eyes and let the music take ahold of him. There was no plaza, there was no town, there was just Héctor and his guitar creating things of beauty together. And, for several hours, that’s all there was.

                But then…

_“Señoras y señores, buenas tardes, buenas noches_

_Buenas tardes, buenas noches, señoritas y señores”_

                He was immediately on his feet, nearly tripping as he ran after the voice. This song he could play in his _sleep_.

“ _To be here with you tonight_

 _Brings me joy, Qué alegría …_ ”

                He just barely skidded to a halt as he found her, wasting no time in joining her singing.

“ _For this music is my language_

_And the world es mi familia._

_For this music is my language_

_And the world es mi familia!”_

                Imelda turned to look at him, cheeks darkening. He grinned.

                “That’s one of my songs.” He tried not to sound smug and ended up sounding pretty smug.

                Imelda huffed and crossed her arms. “It’s stuck in my head.”

                “Because you love it so much?”

                “Because it’s one of those stupid songs that won’t leave.” She shot him a glare. “A lot like the man who wrote it.” She continued walking toward the market; Héctor walked with her.

                “You know, you _can_ like one of my songs. I won’t tell anyone,” he said.

                “Don’t you have your friend to be yowling with in the plaza?” Imelda asked sharply.

                “It’s his day off, so it’s my day off.” He slung his guitar onto his back and gave her his most charming grin. “So, mi princesa, I am at your beck and call.”

                Imelda looked up at the sky with a huff and what sounded like an angry prayer. “I don’t need any crows scared off,” she finally said, then shoved her basket at him. “But I do need an extra pair of hands.”

                Héctor stood up straight, eyes bright as Imelda finally, _finally_ gave him an in. “I will be th—”

                “And, Dios _mio_ , _don’t talk!_ ”

                Héctor blinked, then shrugged and gave her the biggest grin he could, silently gesturing for her to lead the way. He followed her like a puppy throughout the square, waiting patiently as she sorted through what seemed like every single vegetable, cut of meat, and trinket in every stall. Periodically, she would glance back at him, eyebrows raised as if to ask, _Are you bored yet?_ , to which he would always send her a big grin as a silent, _Of course not._

                Eventually, Imelda was out of stalls. He watched silently as she realized this, then watched as she realized she had bought too much to carry home herself. She looked upward once more—he couldn’t guess what she was thinking, but her expression she suggested she wanted to throw her boot at God—then sighed and looked back at Héctor. 

                “I live outside the town. It’ll be a walk. So if you’d rather I call someone to help…” He raised his eyebrows and tapped his lips. She rolled her eyes. “Yes, you can talk now.”

                “See, since you have a scarecrow helping you, I can actually cover double the distance in half the time.” He took a few exaggeratedly big steps to show her. “So we’ll be back to your home in no time.”

                She shook her head as she caught up to him. “Imposible,” she muttered.

                “ _Es_ posible. You just saw it,” he said with a wink.

                She pressed her lips together and shook her head, keeping fastly silent. Héctor adjusted the basket and bag in his arms, then practically bounced beside her as they left the town. Maybe there was something in being cool and unflappable with women—Ernesto certainly was, and that worked for him—but… _ayyyy_ _ave Mar **í** a  **p** ur **í** sima_, it was already taking every bit of willpower to keep himself from letting out a grito then and there! Cool and unflappable was _completely_ out of the question.

                “So what is it you and your friend are doing?” Imelda asked suddenly. It took a minute for Héctor to register that it was a question, and he shrugged.

                “Trying to become famous.”

                “Why?”

                “Because that’s what musicians do.”

                Imelda’s eyes slid over to him, looking unimpressed. “You’re never going to be famous.”

                For the first time, Héctor was wounded by her. He stopped dead in his tracks and frowned. “You don’t know that. Plenty of people from small towns get famous.”

                Imelda stopped and shook her head. “You don’t want it, though. Not like your friend does.” Her lips thinned slightly. “I’ve seen you play a few times now. You…you love the _music._ That’s why…” She abruptly shut her mouth and kept walking.

                Oh, well, _now_ he had to find out what she’d been about to say. He loped after her.

                “That’s why what?”

                “Hm?”

                “’You love the music. That’s why…”?” He shrugged at her; she shrugged back.

                “I don’t know, I lost the thought.”

                He threw back his head and groaned. “ _Ayyy_ , Imelda! How can a woman so beautiful be so cruel to someone who adores her so much?”

                “It’s surprisingly easy.” She said that easily, but he could _just barely_ catch a hint of a flush on her cheeks. She glanced up at him, then set her mouth in a line again. “You’re not the first, you know.”

                “The first what?”

                “The first man who’s decided he’s going to _have_ me. Téodoro, you know him? The lechera’s son?”

                “I’ve seen him.”

                “He’s proposed three times over the past year. And Esteban Juarez just asked my father for my hand two weeks ago.”

                With any other woman, he might have taken this as bragging. With Imelda, though…well, she looked _furious_ , as if asking for her hand had been the ultimate affront. There went his plans for a spontaneous proposal at her door, then.

Jokes aside, though, he felt a lump form in his throat. Maybe Ernesto had been right. Maybe Imelda would just be another Sofia or Luciana. He swallowed.

                “So why not take them up on it?” he asked with some difficulty, then forced a little laugh. “I’m pretty sure Esteban Juarez has more money than I’ll see in my whole life.”

                “Because I’m a trophy for them,” Imelda said bitterly. “They think they’ll melt the ice princess and find a little wife inside.”

                Héctor blinked, then looked up at her. “You’re not made of ice,” he said quietly. “You’re all fire, right down to your soul.” His mouth turned up. “I hear it when you sing, and I see it in your eyes when you look at me.”

                Imelda’s face went soft, caught off-guard by his words. She blinked once, twice, then looked up at him. For once, he gave her a small smile—a genuine one, with no intention to charm—and a shrug. She looked away, teeth digging into her lower lip as she pushed a stray curl behind her ear.

                “My house is up here,” she said quickly, waving to a small house on the edge of the farmland. “I thought you’d keep a better pace.” Despite her attempt, there was no sting in this quip; her face was caught between discomfort and…something else, something _soft._ And Héctor was sure that, if he wanted to, he could win Imelda right here. And it was _tempting_. But…

                Ah, why ruin their game so soon?

“Well, it’s not my fault. Mexico’s own diosa del fuego is here with me and you expect me to _not_ be distracted by her?” He adjusted the basket to press his hand over his heart. “I’m only _human_ , mi diosa!”

                Imelda’s head tilted from the force of her eyeroll as she went up to her house’s door. “ _Basta._ I like you better when you don’t talk.”

                “Then I’ll just have to play for you instead,” Héctor said with a grin as he followed her up. When she opened the door and stepped in, he stood in the doorway, waiting for her to take the bag and basket from him. When she did, he immediately stooped down to untie his shoes.

                “ _What_ are you doing, Héctor?”

                He looked up. “Well, I’d be an awful guest if I tracked dirt inside. I mean, _obviously_ you’re inviting me in for dinner after helping you lug all those groceries back here.”

                “Absolutely not.”

                “No, you’re right, dinner’s a bit much. But at least for a coffee and some of that pan dulce you bought, right? Just tell me where to put my shoes.”

                “Oh, put them on your head!” Imelda quickly shut the door, but that couldn’t mask the laugh in her voice as she did. He stood up straight, smiling despite the refusal.

                “That’s a solid maybe, then?”

                “Go home, Héctor!” Not laughing this time, but there was a definite warmth to her voice. Héctor smiled as he sighed, melting, just a touch, on the doorstep. He tied his shoe and stood up.

                “I’ll have a new song for you to sing next time you go to the market! I promise!” he called through the door, then slowly made his way back down to the road, keeping his eyes on Imelda’s house. No response…until he saw her face look out the window. He gave her a wave, and she shook her head.

                But, even from here, he could see the smile on her face.

~

                Business was booming for Héctor and Ernesto. They spent a solid two weeks travelling from town to town, working everything from quinceañeras to baptisms to a few _very_ fancy just-because parties. In public, Ernesto was his usual charming self and drinking up every bit of attention they got. In private, he didn’t even try to hide how annoyed he was with his friend.

                “You’re playing like you don’t want to be here,” Ernesto said one night as Héctor plopped down on the hotel bed, already jotting lyrics down in his notebook. “Your head’s not here, amigo, and I _need_ it to be.”

                Héctor gave a non-committal shrug as he scratched out a line and wrote a new one below it. Honestly, Ernesto couldn’t get _too_ mad at him. He’d been _on fire_ with songs while on their trip, and the better his songs were, the better Ernesto performed them.

                And anyway, Ernesto got it wrong. His head was here—he wouldn’t be able to perform if it wasn’t—but his heart was just outside Santa Cecilia, waiting by a farmhouse for his diosa del fuego.

                He jumped as Ernesto fell onto the bed, nearly catapulting him off. “I’m _serious_ , Héctor. I need you here. We’re doing _amazing_ , but playing at a few fiestas isn’t going to make us known throughout Mexico,” Ernesto said, then furrowed his brows. “You…do still want this, right?”

                Héctor leaned his head back and let out a breath. “I want to play music,” he said with a shrug. “That’s all I really want.”

                “And you _will._ You’ll become the most celebrated songwriter of all time, and we’ll be playing music until the day we die!” Ernesto propped himself up on his elbow, bright eyes dimming as Héctor returned to his notebook. “I know you love performing as much as I do, Héctor. But you’re acting like you want nothing to do with it.”

                “No, I do. But…” His pencil paused over his page, and he sighed. “Well, I’m homesick. We’ve never had a trip this long.”

                “ _Pfft._ Homesick? For _Santa Cecilia_?”

                “Hey, anyone can get homesick for anywhere!”

                Ernesto laughed—the sound just a touch bitter—and shook his head. “You’re not homesick. I know _exactly_ why you want to go back home.”

                Héctor sighed. “Okay, okay, okayokay. I guess I was more obvious than I thought. It’s _really_ because I’m sick of sharing a bed with you.”

                Ernesto gave him a grim smile. “That’s not it.”

                Héctor glanced up at him, then looked back down at his notebook. “Ah, Ernesto, you see right through me like always. You know, you actually inspired me to write a whole new song.”

                “ _Really?_ ”

                “Sí sí sí, it’s called ‘El Pendejo Ernesto de la Cruz Keeps Kicking Me in His Sleep’.”

                Ernesto, he could tell, wasn’t fooled, but he went along as if he was, giving Héctor a shove and criticizing his tendency to take all the blankets. It was, at least, enough to break the tension for now.

~

                When they got off the train, Héctor immediately bought two more tickets for that night. Without so much as a goodbye to Ernesto, he bolted out of the town and headed straight for the farmhouse to catch up with his heart.

                In retrospect, his plan to sweep Imelda off her feet would probably have worked better if she wasn’t in a house full of a mariachi-hating family.

                He stood out on the road for a moment, trying to re-plan. He could ask, he supposed, to take Imelda out. But that plan had a high risk of rejection. So it was time to think of a better one.

                He walked around the house quietly, gritting his teeth every time the grass crunched under his feet or he stepped on a twig. He had no idea which window would be hers…until he heard it. A voice—quiet but still powerful—drifted from an open window. _Ah_ , she was singing “La Llorona”; that was a favorite of hers, he’d found. He shut his eyes, savoring the sound of her singing for a moment. That gave him the strength to go through with his new, much better plan.

                He sucked in a breath and let out the loudest grito he could.

                The effect was immediate. He could hear the commotion inside the house.

                “ _Dios mio!_ Pedro, what was that?”

                “It sounded like someone dying!”

                “Hush, Felipe, it’s probably just—Oscar, get down from that window!”

                Héctor pressed himself against the wall of the house, then looked up as he heard the window above open. He smiled as Imelda stuck her head out, taking off his sombrero to look at her better.

                “Héctor?”

                “Imelda, run away with me,” he whispered.

                “No.”

                “Just for a few hours, at least?”

                “My family is downstairs! Even if I wanted to—”

                “Even if I had a reservation at La Vela in Puerto Matéo?”

                Imelda blinked. “ _La Vela?_ You’re joking.”

                He grinned and held up the tickets. “The train leaves at seven. If you can get ready right now, we’ll be able to make it.”

                Imelda bit her lip, then ducked back inside. Héctor waited with bated breath, eyes heavenward and _praying_ that this worked. He lit up a few minutes later when Imelda, hair now full of ribbons and a lace fan in her hand, poked her head out again.

                “I can’t.” The disappointment was clear in her face. “There’s no way I can get past my family, and they _definitely_ won’t let me go with some mariachi to a strange town.”

                Héctor blinked. Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. His eyes darted around as he thought, until suddenly he looked up at her with a grin. “Jump.”

                “ _What._ ”

                “Jump down! Your window’s big enough, and I’ll catch you.”

                “ _Estás loco!_ I’ll die!”

                “I would never let my goddess die!” Héctor held out his arms and looked up at her brightly. “Have I given you a reason not to trust me?”

                Imelda chewed her lip, then looked up and made the sign of the Cross. Carefully, she got up onto her window ledge, took a deep breath, then jumped down.

                Héctor lunged forward, dropping his sombrero as he did, but he easily caught her, the momentum whirling them around. For a moment, they stared at each other, almost nose-to-nose and both equally surprised that this plan had worked. Finally, Héctor winked.

                “Not bad for a scarecrow, eh?”

                Imelda let out a quick breath that was almost a laugh. “Oh, just put me down.”

                He did as she asked, then picked up his sombrero before handing her the ticket. “I think there’s just enough time to make the train.”

                By now, Héctor knew he was completely smitten. He’d written twelve songs inspired by Imelda, and the very thought of her _name_ made his heart give a pleasant lurch. But _ay_ , seeing her on the train ride—dressed in her best outfit and practically buzzing with excitement—it was all he could do to stop himself from sighing dreamily every time he so much as glanced at her.

                Hopefully the second half of his plan worked as well as the first.

                They made it to Puerto Matéo soon enough, and Imelda was so excited she didn’t even refuse Héctor’s arm as they walked toward La Vela. La Vela, of course, was _the_ best restaurant in the area: the food, the music, the dancing! People had to send for reservations _months_ ahead of time. So, really, he supposed anyone would be excited to go.

                As they approached the restaurant, Héctor stood a little straighter and dusted off his jacket, then checked to make sure his guitar was still on his back. Okay, okay, okayokay. This plan would work.

                He held his head high as they walked up to the maître, who peered down his nose at them (well, metaphorically; Héctor had at least a half-foot on him).

                “Name?”

                “Héctor Rivera.”

                The maître took a quick glance at his reservation list, then shook his head. “You’re not on the list.”

                Before Imelda could so much as look at him, Héctor turned up his charm. “I know, I know! _Huge_ oversight on my part. But, ah, I mean, I’m sure you’ve heard of me. I’m a _very_ famous mariachi.” He turned his guitar around, plucking out a quick tune. “See! When I hold my guitar, it gives me away; I have to hide it when I go out in public.”

                The maître’s expression didn’t change. “Señor, if you’re not on the list, then…”

                “Ah, you know! You’ve probably heard of my singing partner! Ernesto de la Cruz—voice like an angel, looks like this?” He held up his guitar and did his best Ernesto-grin. “Well, you know, I write _all_ of his songs, taught him everything he knows, and—”

                “Señor, don’t make me call security.”

                Héctor sent a wide-eyed look at Imelda, who looked as if she were considering using her boot on him. “Look, amigo, this is our first time out here and…”

                “ _Humberto!_ ” the maître called. As a _very_ large man sitting nearby started to stand up, Héctor quickly grabbed Imelda’s hand.

                “Time to go, diosa.”

                He immediately bolted, dragging her along after him. Once they were a suitable distance away, he let her go and shook his head.

                “Bunch of fresas! It’s not worth our time to… _Ay!_ ” he yelped as Imelda’s fan cracked against his head.

                “You said you had reservations!”

                He rubbed his head, then gave her a sheepish smile. “Ah. Yes. Well, that…was a lie. I apologize. _Ay!_ Stop that!” He rubbed his head where the fan had struck him again.

                “I go through all this trouble because _you said_ you had reservations. I sneak out, I go to a strange city with a _stupid vago_ …”

                “Now, I know it seems…”

                “ _I jumped out of a window, Héctor!_ ”

                “I know! I know, I know. And I’ll make it up to you, querida, I _swear._ ” He gave her a hopeful smile. “Look, all La Vela has is food and…and music, and atmosphere, right?” He took her shoulders and turned her around to look out at the port—the lights from the docks and the ships glimmering back in the water. “See? You won’t find a view like that in that stuffy restaurant. And I know I play better than those fresas inside. So now all we need is food.”

                “Oh, are you a chef?” Imelda spat, angrily rubbing her arms as a breeze picked up. Héctor merely smiled, shrugging off his coat to drape over her shoulders.

                “No. But I have a couple tricks up my sleeves.”

                Not fifteen minutes later, they were standing at the back entrance of La Vela. Héctor knocked rapidly on the door, then immediately wrapped an arm around Imelda.

                “Look pathetic,” he mumbled.

“ _What?_ ” she hissed just as the door opened. A burly, gruff-looking man looked down at them.

                “Who are you?” he growled.

                “Ah, señor! Por suente, you’re the first one who’s answered today.” He hugged Imelda closer to him. “Look, amigo, my wife and I are just poor musicians, and times have been hard lately…”

                The man crossed his arms. “I don’t give handouts.”

                “Handouts? No no, that’s not what we’re looking for at all.” He let go of Imelda to lean in closer, lowering his voice. “I don’t need anything. But my wife? Señor, look at her. Can you really let a pretty girl like her go hungry?” He bit his lip. “And…look, I really hate bringing this up so soon, but…we think there’s a little one on the way.”

                The man’s face immediately softened at the mention of a potential baby, and he looked down at Héctor, who kept his face open and hopeful, before shaking his head.

                “Wait here.”

                He ducked back inside. A few minutes later, he came out with a covered plate. “Just this once, all right, amigo?” he said as he handed it to Héctor.

                “Oh, yes, _gracias,_ amigo! What’s your name?”

                “Gustavo.”

                “Gustavo, you are a _saint._ And when the baby comes—boy or girl, it doesn’t matter—they’ll be named after my _wonderful_ amigo Gustavo.”

                “Ayy, vete vete.” Gustavo waved his hand, and Héctor gave him one last appreciative bow of the head before returning to Imelda’s side. Once the door was closed, he sent her a smirk as he passed her the plate.

                “There we are. La Vela’s food and a view.”

                Imelda looked down at the plate, then up at Héctor. She sighed as they walked away from the restaurant. “I don’t like liars, Héctor.”

                “Hey, I apologized!”

                “For the first time. But what about ‘we think there’s a little one on the way’?”

                “Well, there might be. I don’t have any way of knowing.”

                Imelda rolled her eyes. “And what about me being your wife?”

                He smiled as he guided her to a little wall on the edge of a lawn. “Well, I figured we might as well get used to the sound of that.”

                He couldn’t tell if the look on her face was one of acute annoyance or something else. Regardless, she sat down and took the cover off the plate. He sat beside her, sliding his guitar to rest in his lap and beginning to tune it.

                “How did you even think of that?” she asked after a few minutes of (sort of) silence. He looked up from the guitar and half-smiled.

                “How do you think Ernesto and I eat half the time? Granted, usually _I’m_ the wife. This was a nice change.” Imelda snorted, and he tutted as he picked up her fan. “Don’t laugh at that!” He flicked the fan open and held it up so he could peer at Imelda over it. “I’ll have you know, querida, I look _stunning_ in an Escaramuza dress.”

                She giggled, and his heart immediately became overfull. “I’ll take your word for it.” She nodded to his guitar. “Didn’t you say we’d have music?”

                 He gave the guitar a few strums. “I did. Enjoy your dinner, diosa, while I serenade you.”

                She glanced down at her plate, then looked up at Héctor. “Actually, there’s one thing that La Vela has that you haven’t thought of.”

                “Hm?”

                She stood up. “I really wanted to dance. But if you’re the music…”

                “ _Ay_ , diosa, you don’t think I can do both?” He immediately started plucking out a quick tune, getting to his feet and doing the same quick, impromptu dance usually reserved for the most enthusiastic performances. He looked up at Imelda, eyes bright, as he finally decided to debut the song he’d been working on for months.

“ _What color is the sky_

_Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor_

_You tell me that it’s red_

_Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor_

_Where should I put my shoes_

_Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor_

_You say, ‘_ Put them on your head!’

_Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor”_

                He nodded for her to join him, smiling at the look of surprise on her face.

_“You make me un poco loco_

_Un poquititito loco_ ”

                He laughed as she stood up and joined him, carefully matching his steps with her own.

_“The way you keep me guessing_

_I’m nodding and I’m yessing_

_I’ll count it as a blessing_

_That I’m only un poco loco!_ ”

                Imelda was fully into the music now, skirt swishing as she stepped lightly. She met his eyes with a smile, laughing as they fell into sync and circled each other. He leaned closer for the next verse, eyes locked right on hers.

_“The loco that you make me_

_It is just un poco crazy_

_The sense that you’re not making_

_The liberties you’re taking_

_Please, my goddess, I’m shaking_

_You are just un poco loco!”_

                He couldn’t help the loud grito that burst from him as they danced, and to his great delight, Imelda joined in, crowing loud enough to echo back to them from the dark houses on the street. They went back and forth, joy bursting out of them in louder cries until a shoe flew right between them.

                “Get out of here, mariachi!” an old woman—likely the one who had thrown the shoe—called from her open window. They both stopped and looked up at her, then turned to look at each other. Imelda let out a little _snerk_ , and they both burst out laughing. She took his hand and pulled him away with a giggle.

                “Come on. We’ll get run out of town soon enough.”

                “Un momento, un momento.” Without letting go of Imelda’s hand, Héctor stooped down and picked up the shoe. He bowed his head as he presented it to her grandly. “Here, something to remember the night.”

                Imelda let out a yelp of laughter, but she took the shoe regardless as Héctor finally let her tug him away from the houses. They laughed all the way down to the docks, and were still letting out the odd giggle here and there as they walked down the little boardwalk. Then, to Héctor’s great surprise, he felt a soft weight rest against him. He looked down, heart jumping as he saw Imelda resting her head against his shoulder.

                “I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun,” she sighed. He smiled.

                “You couldn’t get that at La Vela,” he said. “ _And_ I bet Esteban Juarez couldn’t ever buy it for you.”

                “Oh, _dios_ , Esteban Juarez!” Imelda laughed. “No, he never could.”

                “And the lechera’s son?”

                “I don’t think he knows _how_ to have fun.”

                “Ah, so you see? I might have been on to something by calling you my wife.”

                Imelda smiled and shook her head, keeping her cheek pressed against his shoulder. For several minutes, they walked in silence; there was a peculiar heaviness to it that told him Imelda was thinking hard about something. Then, very softy, she asked, “Héctor, what do you want?”

                “I kind of want to throw the shoe back at that vieja.”

                “No, no. I mean…what do you want with _me_?” She looked up at him. “This is harder than anyone’s ever worked before giving up on me.”

                “Well, you deserve every bit of effort.”

                “But _why_? Why have _you_ gone through all this trouble?”

                Héctor stayed silent for a moment, acutely aware of the way she hung onto his arm as they walked. “Because I’ve heard you sing. Plenty of people sing whatever in the market, but _the way_ you sing, the power, the…the _life_ you give to the song even as you’re looking at, I don’t know, cucumbers or something—I realized that there was someone else who loved music just for music’s sake, just like I did.” He looked down at her. “It’s like your voice grabbed my heart and wouldn’t let me go. So I decided I wouldn’t let you go, either.” After a moment, he asked, “What do _you_ want with _me_?”

                Imelda sighed and shut her eyes. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “You’re a lying mariachi who lives with your head in the clouds, dreaming about fame and who knows what else. You’re the type of man I _swore_ I’d never so much as look at. But, _dios mio_ , here I am, charmed by you like any other girl.”

                “If it makes you feel better, most girls aren’t charmed by me.”

                Imelda laughed. “So that means I have bad taste.” She sighed. “But I don’t know what I want.”

                “Then I’ll help you. I know you don’t want to be someone’s little wife.”

                She looked down, plucking at Héctor’s sleeve. “I…well, I wouldn’t mind being a wife. Just so long as my husband doesn’t think that’s all I am.” Héctor stopped, and she looked up as he slowly started to sink down to one knee, one eyebrow raised. “ _Ay_ , not now, estupido!” she chided, pulling him back up to his feet. “Tonight’s only convinced me that you’re fun, not anything else.”

                One look at her told him that he wasn’t the only liar tonight, but he let it go. He looked up as he heard the town clock strike ten. “We’d better head to the station, diosa. Looks like our time in Puerto Matéo is up.”

                “It’s probably for the best. We’d probably get arrested if we stay too much longer.”

Imelda kept her arm in his as she headed for the station, and once on the train, her head started to bob before it finally rested on his shoulder. He looked down at her, heart overfilling again, and carefully wrapped an arm around her. His heart jumped as she nestled against him, easy as anything. _Ay_ , what a dream tonight had been.

                But it was time to come back to reality once the train stopped in Santa Cecilia. He gently roused his sleeping beauty, and he kept his arm around her to guide her off the train. She had woken up fully once they were out of the station, but—to his delight—she didn’t shrug him off as they walked back to her house. They stayed silent, both wishing that the night didn’t have to come to an end. But, as they approached the little farmhouse, the end had arrived. Reluctantly, she pulled away from him and took off his coat.

                “You’ll probably need this for your next tour,” she said, holding it out to him. “When are you leaving?”

                “In a couple days; we’re aiming for Guadalajara. And if Ernesto pulls through, we’ll actually be traveling for…” He trailed off, heart dropping. “…for six weeks.”

                “Oh.” Imelda swallowed.

                “But…but we can always cut it short and…”

                “No, no.” She took a step up to him, resting her hands on his chest. “You’re no vago, Héctor. If you see something, you go full-force after it. And if you see this as your shot at the fame you want, then go.”

                His face was soft as he looked down at her, hands tentatively resting on her waist. “I…I don’t know if fame’s what I want,” he admitted quietly. “It’s Ernesto’s dream. Mine is…” He sighed. “I don’t know what mine is.”

                Imelda gave him a soft smile, reaching up to cup his face. “You’ll find it.”

                For a long moment, their eyes rested on each other. A light press of Imelda’s fingers told him what to do, and he slowly leaned down. Imelda’s eyes fluttered shut, and his heart swelled as he felt the first brush of air against his lips. Just a bit more…

                “ _Ay!_ Get away from her, mariachi!”

                They quickly broke away as a woman burst from the farmhouse, chancla raised high in the air. She promptly started swinging at Héctor, even as he scrambled back.

                “Señora, señora, please! I was just— _ow!_ —I was just making sure your daughter got home safely!”

                “After doing _what_ with her?”

                “Nothing!”

                “And _you!”_ Imelda’s mother whirled around, pointing the chancla at her daughter. “What kind of fulana have I raised? Running off in the middle of the night with _vagos_ like this! What did I tell you about mariachis?”

                Imelda took a few steps out of the chancla’s range. “It was nothing, Mamá! Héctor was just walking me home!”

                “ _When did you even leave_?’

                Imelda’s eyes widened. _Oh._ There wasn’t a good answer for that. Imelda grimaced, and her mother shook her head.

                “Get inside, mi hija. We’ll talk about this in there. And _you!_ ” She shoved the chancla right up into his face. “If I _ever_ see you around my daughter again, mariachi, you’ll wish you were _never born. Está claro?_ ”

                “Sí, sí, claro!” Even as he tried to duck away, his eyes drifted up to Imelda. Despite everything, she gave him a small smile. Things weren’t over for them, not by a long shot.

                “And what have you got to smile about, _mariachi?_ ” The chancla swatted at his nose, and Héctor yelped. “Get out of here!”

                “ _Sí,_ sí, sí. Buenas noches, señora.” He took off his hat and dipped his head, then scrambled back as the chancla was waved at his face once more before Imelda’s mother ushered her inside. Once the door closed, he sighed as he stood on the road.

                Six weeks would be such an awfully long time.

~

                “Six weeks is such a long time!” Ernesto crowed as he and Héctor headed to the station, each with a suitcase in one hand and a guitar case in the other. “Guadalajara’s going to give us a _king’s_ welcome by the time we get there!”

                “Mm.”

                Ernesto elbowed him. “Don’t give me that sad face, muchacho. The minute we get out and start to perform, you’ll be on top of the world. Why, you probably won’t even remember…”

                “Imelda!”

                Héctor nearly dropped his bags as he ran toward her, eyes wide and bright as he looked over her in amazement.

                “What are you doing here?” he asked. She shrugged.

                “Well, my house arrest was lifted just enough for me to go to the market, and I figured I’d try to see you before you go.” She looked over him and tutted. “You’ll freeze to death in that; those mariachi jackets don’t do anything against the cold.” She pulled off her shawl and wrapped it around his shoulders with a small smile. “There. Now I won’t have to worry about you freezing to death like an idiot.”

                Héctor’s eyes widened, and he looked down at the shawl before giving her a wide smile. “I can’t believe I’ve been given something blessed by a goddess.” He bowed his head. “I’m honored.”

                “Oh, cállate.” She lifted his chin and met his eyes seriously. “Be safe, Héctor. And write to me, please.”

                “Every day.”

                Imelda smiled, then took a breath before pushing up on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips. Héctor’s eyes widened, and he stared at her, completely dumbfounded, once she pulled away. A wide grin broke out on his face, and he quickly leaned down to return the kiss. _Ohhh_ , he could stay there forever—but the train whistled impatiently, and Imelda pulled back and pat his cheek.

                “Go on,” she whispered. “Find your dream. I’ll be here when you come home.”

                He gave her his widest grin and nodded. “I’ll have hundreds of new songs for you when I come back, diosa!” he called as he hopped onto the train, grabbing onto the railing as it started to move. “Remember me, okay?”

                “I could never forget!” Imelda called. She waved at him from the platform, and he stayed outside until he couldn’t see her anymore. He sighed dreamily, then gathered his things and headed inside to find Ernesto. He looked none-too-happy as Héctor waved at him.

                “I didn’t think you even made it on the train,” he said flatly. “You put our jobs at risk, you know.”

                “Guess I did,” Héctor said with a laugh, tucking his suitcase on the shelf above them before dropping down beside him with a content sigh. “But we made it, muchacho! That’s what matters, right?”

                Ernesto frowned. “Just don’t do it again.”

                Héctor laughed and gave him a little shove before sinking down in his seat, heart pleasantly filling his chest. Ah, let Ernesto sulk. He looked down at Imelda’s shawl, then pulled up the corner to kiss it lightly.

                The six weeks would still be unbearable, but it helped to know she was thinking of him.

~

                They cruised through the first half of their little tour, with their planned gigs going extremely well and a few impromptu performances giving them even more of a boost. They weren’t anywhere close to household names yet, of course, but there were starting to be little nods of recognition when they introduced themselves. Plus, as they continued traveling, they were invited to _attend_ a few parties in addition to playing them.

                Ernesto was _thriving._ This was the life he was meant to lead, that much was clear. The looks and the voice were still there, of course, but he positively _sparkled_ (figuratively and literally) when they mingled and dined with…well, they weren’t _fans_ , but people who thought they were pretty good. He told hilarious stories, made girls melt with a smile and a wink, and always managed to be the life of the party. He was probably the happiest Héctor had ever seen him.

                As for Héctor, well, he was having a good enough time. Ernesto had been right—he did love to perform, and knowing that Imelda was waiting for him back home gave him a sense of joy that came through in his playing. They debuted three new songs—heartfelt love songs, all of them—that were met with incredible success…even if it took Ernesto a few tries to give Héctor the credit for writing them.   

                The parties and dinners were all right, but he always excused himself early to head back to the hotel. There, he always found a letter from Imelda waiting for him, and he was quick to read it and even quicker to write back.

                He wasn’t sure if it was by virtue of not being together in person or because of their wonderful time in Puerto Matéo, but they shared _everything_ in their letters. Imelda told him all about her twin brothers (“Am I a bad sister if I can’t tell them apart half the time?”), about her grandmother who had taught her how to sing (“I asked her on Día de Muertos how she felt about me being followed by a mariachi, and her candle went out. I still don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”), how she kept the shoe the vieja had thrown at them on her shelf (“When Mamá asked, I said it was to remind myself to marry a zapatero.”). There were silly things, like how the whole market had to shut down because a particularly ornery goat had gotten loose and started headbutting _everything_ , and sentimental things, like how one day she wanted a whole house full of children. She teased him, saying that there were crows _everywhere_ since he’d left, and made a few mentions of having a surprise for him when he got home.

                On his end, he told her all about their travels—he’d had to perform by himself at one show, because Ernesto had been laid up in bed with food poisoning (“Travel food seems ready to kill us at any time.”) and it had been a complete disaster; a group of girls followed them for three towns (“And _yes,_ of course I politely turned them down. What a curse it is to be so handsome, mi querida!”); he went on and on about how beautiful Guadalajara was (“When I have the money, diosa, I’ll bring you here and we’ll dance in the streets. I’ll play my guitar, and you’ll dazzle the whole city in your sky-red dress.”).   He sent her drafts of new songs, asking her opinions on the lyrics and swearing to play them for her the moment he was back in Santa Cecilia, as well as a picture of himself that had been taken at one of the fancier parties (just in case she had forgotten what he looked like after a month). Plus he had his own gift to hint at in his letters, too.

                After two weeks in Guadalajara, he finally had enough money to actually _buy_ the gift. It wasn’t as grand as he wanted it to be, but Imelda was a sensible girl—even at her fanciest, she was practical and no-nonsense. And besides, if this whole fame thing actually panned out, he’d be able to buy her anything she could ever want.

                He tucked the box into his coat pocket and practically bounced back to the hotel. He was already thinking of what to write in his letter today; he’d tease her and she’d write back how frustrated she was, and he’d say “Well, if you won’t tell me about _my_ surprise, I won’t tell you about _yours.”_ And then she…

                “Héctor! I was worried, you’re usually scribbling away in here.”

                Héctor blinked in surprise as Ernesto was actually _in_ the room, carefully trimming his mustache. Since they’d been in Guadalajara, Ernesto had managed to find groups of new friends to go about with almost every waking hour. Honestly, they’d hardly seen each other outside of their gigs and the few parties Héctor went to. He smiled as he set the little scissors down.

                “It’s like we don’t even live together anymore, no?” He patted down his face with a damp towel. “I thought we could go out, just like old times.”

                Héctor laughed at that. “‘Old times’ was a month ago, Ernesto.”

                Ernesto let out a small sigh, still smiling as he tossed the towel on the sink edge. “It seems so long ago, doesn’t it? If this is how far we come in six weeks, imagine the life we’ll be living in six _months!_ ” He shook his head. “But none of that tonight. We’re in a big city, just like we always dreamed! So tonight, it’s just Ernesto y Héctor.”

                Héctor smiled and nodded. “All right, Ernesto y Héctor it is.”

                Ernesto grinned as he pulled on his coat, then looked despairingly at Héctor as his friend went to the door. “Is that what you’re wearing out?”

                Héctor looked down at his faded coat. “What? You said tonight was Ernesto y Héctor.” He gestured to his clothes. “This is Héctor.”

                “We’re in the city for two weeks and you haven’t even _looked_ for something a little nicer?” Ernesto pressed a hand to his forehead. “What have you been doing with all that money, then?”

                Héctor debated for a moment. Given his reactions over the past few months, he probably _wouldn’t_ like the idea of Héctor’s gift. But…well, he had to tell _someone._ And Ernesto was his best friend. He’d be happy for him, right? He let out a breath, then fished out the little box from his pocket. He smiled as he popped it open, the slim gold ring inside glinting out at them.

                “Bonita, no? If I had enough, I’d’ve gotten something a _little_ nicer, but I think she’ll love it.” He looked up at Ernesto, a bright smile on his face. “I’m doing what you’ve always said, Ernesto. I’m _seizing my moment._ ” He raised his eyebrows. “And you’ll be the best man, won’t you? If she says yes?”

                Ernesto stared down at the ring. At least a hundred thoughts crossed his face, but Héctor couldn’t tell what they were. Finally, he again pressed his hand to his forehead.

                “That’s it, Héctor. You’re completely gone this time.”

                “What?”

                Ernesto shoved a finger at the ring. “You think this is a good idea? You _really_ want to tie yourself down to a woman who _doesn’t even like you_? _”_

                Héctor frowned, drawing himself to his full height. “She _does_ like me. More than that, I think…I think she _loves_ me.”

                Ernesto gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, she loves you? Why? Because she sends you these?” He picked up the stack of letters Héctor had left on his bed.

                “Hey! Put those back!” Héctor scrambled to grab the letters back with his free hand, but Ernesto kept them just out of reach.

                “Or maybe because she kissed you at the station? You’re a _fantasy_ for her, Héctor. She’s probably using you to get her parents or another beau angry.”

                “ _Cállate!_ ” Héctor snapped, finally managing to snatch the letters away from Ernesto. He shut the ring box and stuck it back in his coat. “You don’t even know her! You’re too busy focusing on _fame_ to look at anyone else! You can’t even remember that _I_ wrote our songs half the time.”

                “Of _course_ I know you wrote our songs. You’re _talented,_ Héctor! But you’re the one willing to throw away a chance to show everyone in the _world_ your talent because you want to be weighed down by some…by some _cabrona_ who—"

                “ _Don’t call her that!_ ” The letters went flying as Héctor lunged straight at Ernesto.

                The truth was, neither of them was much of a fighter. Héctor certainly wasn’t built for fighting, but he’d been known to throw a few punches when things went south. Ernesto was a big, intimidating guy, but he didn’t have the temperament to fight. So, for a good few minutes, they were equally matched as they tussled.

                Ernesto, though, was the one who managed to land a lucky punch. His fist crashed right into Héctor’s mouth, sending his friend stumbling back. Ernesto took a step back as Héctor’s hand went to his mouth, eyes wide but face otherwise still. After a moment, Héctor spat out a mouthful of blood—along with the fractured remains of one of his front teeth.

                The night _did_ end up being just Ernesto y Héctor, but it ended up being spent in the office of the local dentist—who, luckily enough, ended up enjoying a performance of theirs earlier in the week and was willing to stay late. Ernesto, horrified by what he had done to his best friend, had fronted the entire bill, including the gold tooth that, several hours later, sat front and center in Héctor’s smile.

                The walk back to the hotel was spent in silence, and the silence continued as Héctor tried to salvage the letters that weren’t spattered with blood. He looked up as a few more letters were held out in front of his nose. He looked up at Ernesto, who pressed his lips together.

                “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

                Héctor kept his mouth closed as he snatched the letters back, grimacing as he felt the strange slide of metal against his lips. He looked up again as Ernesto pushed his hair back into place with a sigh.

                “Of course I’ll be your best man,” he finally said. “And…I hope you and Imelda are happy together.”

                Héctor watched him for a moment, then sighed and got to his feet. He held out a hand; Ernesto clasped it tightly.

                “Gracias, amigo,” he said, the words feeling strange with the intruding tooth.

                Later that night, Héctor couldn’t sleep. His mouth ached something awful, and he kept running his tongue over the gold tooth. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if Ernesto punching his _mouth_ had been deliberate. Several people—Ernesto included—had said that his smile was his best (or, in some cases, only redeeming) feature. Now, despite his bravado, Héctor wasn’t vain. But even so…why would Ernesto take the only good thing about his face?

                He decided not to dwell on that.

~

                They finished their remaining two weeks and headed back home. The train ride back to Santa Cecilia was quiet and anxious. Things were still tense between the two since their fight, and the reality of his upcoming proposal was suddenly crashing down on Héctor. What if she hated his smile now? What if she didn’t like the ring? _What if she said no?_

                 His stomach twisted as Santa Cecilia was called, and he took a deep breath and shook himself out before he got to his feet. Ernesto let him go out first, and he held his breath as he stepped off the train and looked for Imelda. Was she here? She had to know he’d be on the 3:40 tra—

                “ _Héctor!_ ”

                He stood up straight as he heard his name, and he broke into the first real smile he’d worn since the fight. He and Imelda rushed toward each other, and he promptly dropped his suitcase and guitar to gather her up into a hug and whirl her around—nearly getting hit in the head by the large case in her hands as he did so. That must be the surprise, but that could wait; for now, he peppered her face with kisses. She laughed brightly enough to catch the attention of several townspeople, pushing herself away from him.

                “Wait, wait wait wait, I have your surprise.” She stooped down to open up the case, then looked up at Héctor with a small, excited smile. “What do you think it is?”

He shook his head. “A boot.”

                “A _boot_?”

                “To hit me with after being away from you for so long.”

                Imelda laughed and shook her head. “No, no. Not this time, at least.” She stood up, holding what had to be the most beautiful guitar he had ever seen. The body was a polished white, with gorgeous black etchings and an outline of mother-of-pearl. And, _ah_ , the headboard was shaped like a _skull_ , complete with a row of teeth smiling up at him. He stared at it with wide eyes, fingers just lightly brushing against the strings.

                “Dios mio,” he whispered, then let out a little laugh. “How…how did you even _find_ this?”

                “A man came through just after you left with all sorts of instruments, and I just…I knew this one was perfect for you.”

                He grinned, a glint of gold showing up in his faint reflection, before he stood up seriously. “It must have cost a fortune. You didn’t…” He furrowed his brows as Imelda looked, of all things, sheepish. “What?”

                “I… _might_ have told a little lie to get a better price.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the picture he had sent her with a little wink before putting on a distraught face. “You see, this is my late husband. He loved music more than anything in the world, and this guitar reminds me of him _so much_.” She added a little sniffle for dramatic effect.   

                He stared at her, then let out a bright laugh as he gathered her into his arms and lifted her up. “There’s my girl! You’re learning from the best, diosa!”

                Imelda laughed, then suddenly stopped as she looked down at him. “Wait. What’s that?”

                Héctor blinked, then quickly pressed his lips together tightly as he set her down.

                “Oh, no you don’t.”

He hummed and shook his head, but she was persistent. Eventually, pushing _way_ too hard with her thumb, she got a glimpse of his gold tooth. “Qué es esto?! I told you to be safe!”

                “I was safe! Completely safe!” he assured as he pushed her hand away. “I just…” He looked at her for a moment, mouth quirking upward as she narrowed her eyes at him, free hand on her waist. Ah, there was his goddess. He took a breath and shrugged as he dug into his jacket pocket. “Well, truth be told, I was feeling a little left-out. I thought we could both do with a little bit of gold.”

                Imelda looked up and laughed. “Oh, I see. So your surprise was knocking o—” She went silent as she looked back down at him. He had sunk down to one knee, and he swallowed as he opened up the velvet box to show the little ring inside.

                “Imelda?” His voice shook as he said her name—softly, tenderly—and he opened his mouth again, but no words came out. Imelda pressed her hand to her mouth.

He couldn’t get his throat to loosen up enough to finish the question, but Imelda understood. Of course she did. They were two strings, twined together and playing in perfect harmony. So she dropped to her knees, his new guitar dropping (undamaged!) to the side as she threw her arms around him and gripped him tight.

                And that was all the “yes” he needed.

~

                Shortly after, Héctor made a trip to the town’s local artist. In exchange for _of course_ taking one of her portraits to a big city on his next trip, he got the teeniest, tiniest bit of gold paint. That night, Imelda caught him very carefully painting his guitar. After a moment, he held up the guitar and flashed her a bright grin—a gold tooth on each glinted back at her.

                “Mira, mira! Now it really is the spitting image of your late husband.”

                Imelda laughed the hardest she had in a very long time, and suddenly, Héctor didn’t mind his gold tooth much at all.

~

                They married only a couple months later. As far as weddings go, it wasn’t all that noteworthy. He, of course, had no family to speak of, and hers made their staunch disapproval clear by not showing up to the church.  But if Imelda was bothered by not having her mother help with her wedding dress or join them for the ceremony, she didn’t let it show. And Héctor…to Héctor, it was the most perfect day of his life.               Sure, their wedding guests consisted of Ernesto, a couple of girls Imelda vaguely knew, a few curious townspeople, and a chicken that had wandered in. Yes, their wedding night was spent in a house even _smaller_ than the Casita de la Musica. And _maybe_ having the money for a reception would have been a _little_ more fun.

                But seeing _his_ Imelda in her white dress, grinning at her as the priest went through the wedding mass, giving her the long, needy kiss he’d been dying to give her since they’d first met and dancing together in a reception that was solely her and him…all of that made it the best day of his life.

                For nine months, the Rivera household was a place so full of joy that it couldn’t be contained in its four walls. Héctor played his guitar at all hours, Imelda’s voice met his playing, and if you passed by at any given time, there was a chance that you’d see the two of them whirling about in a laughter-filled dance. At the end of those nine months, the _other_ best day of Héctor’s life happened: he became a Papá.

                The name on her birth certificate was Socorro, after the grandmother that had taught Imelda to sing. To her parents, though, she was simply Coco. Beautiful Coco with her papá’s bright eyes and her mamá’s serious face. Wonderful Coco who cooed along when her mamá sang and giggled when her papá danced with her around their little house. Things couldn’t be better.

                Except…for Ernesto.

                For the most part, Ernesto stayed out of their lives. Too busy with his growing fame, probably. But every few months, he’d show up at their door, _begging_ Héctor to join him for a _quick_ little tour. He’d needle and prod for a few days, and inevitably, Héctor would give in.

                Initially, Imelda didn’t mind. Performing was a part of Héctor, she’d known that going in. And, what with Ernesto’s growing popularity—which only seemed to grow when Héctor wrote a new song—they’d even been able to buy a proper house after a few tours. But then the trips were longer. The time between was shorter. By the time Coco was a year old, he was away more than he was at home, and the strain between the Riveras was starting to show.

                “I’ll be back soon, querida,” Héctor promised this time, like he did every time.

                “And then you’ll leave again.” Imelda refused to look at him as she sharply folded a few of Coco’s little pueblas.

                “But I _always_ come back to you, diosa.” He wrapped his arms around her and pressed a cheek to her temple. She stayed rigid in his arms, and he sighed. “It kills me, you know, to be away from my girls.”

                “Then why aren’t you dead after leaving us so much?” Her voice was sharp enough that Héctor let go and took a step back. She glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes hard, then she sighed. “I worry, Héctor. One day…one day I think you’ll choose music over us.”

                Héctor pressed his lips together. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t a matter of choosing. That he _wanted_ to have both his family and his music. Maybe that was selfish; Imelda would tell him that it was, he knew.

                “I won’t,” he said softly, tentatively resting his hands on her arms. “I’ll _always_ be back, Imelda. If it didn’t pay so well…”

                “You _could_ get some dec—regular work.” Imelda caught herself too quickly for Héctor to argue, and she sighed as she leaned back against him. She reached up to cup his cheek, fingers grazing against his cheekbone. “I want you _home_ , Héctor. I want Coco to have her Papá here with her.”

                Héctor sighed, turning his head to kiss her palm. “I know, diosa. Soon.” He squeezed her arms. “I mean it this time.” He knelt his head to kiss her temple. “It’s just about time. I’m going to sing Coco her lullaby.”

                Imelda sighed, but nodded. Héctor glanced back at her, then picked up his guitar and went to Coco’s room. The baby, clearly just woken up from a nap, yawned and made an irritable noise, only to give a bright grin as she saw her Papá. Héctor smiled back, reaching forward to touch her wispy hair.

                “Papá’s going to have to go soon,” he murmured. “But I’ll be back before you know it, mija. And I’ll sing you your lullaby every night.” He held up his guitar, heart warming at the excited coos as he strummed the first chord. “Are you figuring it out? Maybe you can sing with me, even when we’re apart.” He strummed again, smiling as Coco clapped her pudgy hands together.

“ _Remember me_

_Though I have to say goodbye_

_Remember me_

_Don’t let it make you cry_

_For even if I’m far away_

_I hold you in my heart_

_I sing a secret song to you_

_Each night we are apart…”_

                He laughed as Coco tried to follow the tune with her own “Aaaah”s and bounced in place. “That’s right, mija! You’ve almost got it.” He played just a touch slower, to encourage her.

“ _Remember me_

_Though I have to travel far_

_Remember me_

_Each time you hear a sad guitar_

_Know that I’m with you_

_The only way that I can be_

_Until you’re in my arms again_

_Remember me.”_

                Héctor smiled softly at Coco as she clapped again in tiny applause. He really wasn’t lying to Imelda—each day without his girls felt like an eternity, and it just got harder each time he left. Coco had already taken her first steps while he was gone. How much more would he miss if he kept going like this?

                He shook his head as he set his guitar aside and carefully picked Coco up. He kissed her cheek before sitting on the ground, setting Coco into his lap and holding up his guitar for her to touch. They both laughed as she plucked at a string.

                “One day, Coco, you’re going to sing just like your Mamá, and you’ll play just like Papá.” He smiled warmly as she reached up to press a hand to his face. “We’ll have the loudest house in the whole town, and everyone will be _so_ jealous.”

                Coco cooed in agreement, and Héctor set the guitar down to cuddle her close, peppering kisses to her face to make her giggle.

                “But for now, Papá has to go again. Just for a little while. But, mi querida Coco, I’ll always, _always_ be back. Just remember me while I’m gone.”

~

                “You forgot to mention me again.”

                “What do you mean?”

                “You _know_ what I mean, Ernesto.”

                Ernesto glanced back at Héctor as he shut the door to their room, then shrugged and put on an easy grin. “I’m sorry, my friend. But you _do_ know how I get when there’s a crowd.” He pulled off his sombrero and hung it on a wall hook. “I just… _forget_ myself.”

                “No, you forget everyone else,” Héctor grumbled as he sat down onto his bed. “You’ve been getting worse.”

                “That’s where you’re mistaken, Héctor. I’ve _never_ been better.”

                Héctor rolled his eyes as he flopped back onto the bed. As if the homesickness wasn’t enough, Ernesto was getting…bad about a lot of things. They weren’t famous by any stretch, but they were recognized in musical circles now, and it went straight to Ernesto’s head. And that just emphasized the _worst_ in his personality. Certainly every now and again in the past, he’d need a little nudge to remind him to say, “And this next song is written by my amigo right here!” Héctor hadn’t minded that. But now? Now he was lucky if he could shout out his name before Ernesto started playing.

                Plus…there was the issue of his songs. Ernesto _adored_ his music; he always had, and he was the one who pushed to perform what Héctor had written. But, whether he was lazy or he just honest-to-god wasn’t able to, he still couldn’t play by ear. So, even after _years_ of performing some of his songs, he still begged Héctor for the transcriptions. Before, it had been sheer laziness stopping Héctor from writing down a copy for his friend, but now…silly as it was, it was self-preservation.

Of course, he wanted to believe the best in Ernesto! But…the hungriness in his eyes whenever he asked for the music, it didn’t sit well with him. He’d even taken to keeping his notebook tucked in his suitcase while they travelled—despite the fact that Ernesto _wasn’t_ supporting a family with his share of the earnings, he insisted he stay in the same modest room as Héctor. “For old time’s sake,” he always said with that same easy smile.

                Maybe Héctor was just being paranoid. It was probably just the homesickness getting to him. But…still, he couldn’t fight that niggling little voice in his head that said that Ernesto would drop him the moment he got his hands on his songs.

                Ah, but it didn’t matter, not right now, at least. In the distance, a church bell rung out nine o’clock. Héctor reached down beside him and picked up his guitar, sitting up and shutting his eyes as he strummed the first chord of “Remember Me.”

                It was like the whole world stopped just for this song. Suddenly, Héctor wasn’t in a dingy little hotel room, he wasn’t with Ernesto. He was back home, singing his little Coco to sleep.

                And it was always such a disappointment when the song ended and he had to come back to reality.

                This time, as the final note hung in the air, he caught Ernesto staring at him. He returned the look curiously as he set his guitar down.

                After a moment, Ernesto said, very gently, “I think that’s my favorite song of yours.”

                Héctor smiled as he shut his guitar case. “It’s mine, too.”

                “Then why don’t you perform it? It’d be an instant hit.”

                Héctor sighed, once again flopping back onto the bed. Of course he wouldn’t understand. “Not every song has to be for the whole world, Ernesto. This one’s only for Coco.”

                Ernesto groaned. “You see, it’s _that_ thinking that’s keeping us back. You’re…”

                “ _Talented,_ I know,” Héctor finished dryly. “I know this is a stretch for you, _amigo,_ but have you ever thought that _maybe_ fame isn’t the only thing there is?”

                “To other people, maybe! But not for us.” Ernesto walked over to kneel beside Héctor’s bed, dark eyes locking onto his. “This is what we’ve spent our _whole lives_ dreaming of, Héctor. All this time, all this work…we’re past due for a reward, don’t you think? And we’ll _never_ earn it if you keep hoarding these songs to yourself.”

                “They’re _my_ songs.”

                “They _should_ be the world’s songs!” Ernesto puffed and pressed a hand to his forehead. “I _thought_ you understood. If we’re going to be performers, we can’t be _selfish._ We—”

                “ _Oh_ , that’s rich coming from you,” Héctor spat as he sat up. “I guess ‘selfless’ means letting you take _all_ the credit with _our_ work? Letting you take credit for _my_ work?”

                “Dios mio, where do you even think of these things? I have _always_ said that it would be Ernesto y Héctor, since we were _boys_.” A dark look crossed Ernesto’s face. “Is _that woman_ telling you—”

                “ _My wife_ doesn’t say anything about you.”

                Ernesto looked up at Héctor, who glared back silently. Finally, he sighed. “Look. I understand. You miss your family, and that makes you… _irritable,_ ” he said as he stood up. “But you said it yourself, Héctor. _The world_ is our family, too. You wouldn’t deny Coco anything, why would you deny the rest of your _familia_?”

                Héctor rolled his eyes as he pushed himself up. “You don’t understand it at all,” he muttered as he headed for the door.

“Héctor? _Hey,_ Héctor, where are you going?”

                “I’m going for a walk,” he said sharply over his shoulder as he walked out. He sucked in a breath of cool air once he shut the door hard, held it for a moment, then let it out as he started to walk. Ernesto didn’t _understand._ He’d never seen that it wasn’t about fame for Héctor. It was just…the _music._ And if he spent the rest of his life only making music for Coco, well, that’d be fine for him. Oh, but that wouldn’t work for _Ernesto._ No, _the world_ was just as important as his daughter! _Ave_ María _Purísma_ , it was a lucky thing he didn’t have a child! The poor thing would…

                Héctor came to a stop not too far from the hotel, letting out a slow breath as it clicked. _Oh._ Of course Ernesto wouldn’t understand. Up until a year ago, Héctor wouldn’t have, either. He stood for a moment, hands in his pockets as he thought. Really, he’d been the closest thing to family Ernesto had had for…well, who knew how long. And Héctor _had_ been the one to say that the world was their family, back when they had no fans, no families, nothing but their guitars and hopes for a better life.

                He should be more patient. Right now, he had more than Ernesto. He shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss his best friend when all he had were people who paid him lip service.

                He took another deep breath, the cold sting in his lungs clearing his head. Then, he turned and headed back to the hotel. He gave a tentative knock before opening the door.

                “Ernesto? Look, I’m sorry for yelling at you. I—” The apology died on Héctor’s lips as Ernesto looked up at him, eyes wide as his thumb marked his place in a book.

                In _Héctor’s notebook._

                “I—my friend, you left it out and I just—”

                “You _know_ I _didn’t!_ ” In three quick strides, he was able to snatch the book away from Ernesto. “Dios mio, I was _right_ about you! You don’t care about anyone but yourself!” He waved the book in the air. “ _These aren’t for you._ ”

                “Héctor, will you stop being so _unreasonable_?” Despite his attempt to sound smooth, Ernesto’s voice was strained. “We already play these songs! What’s the point in keeping them from me? Is this some sort of…some sort of _power trip_ for you?”

                “ _What?!_ ”

                “You know I can’t play by ear! But you still just give me the _barest_ hint of what to play when we perform them.”

                “You’re busy _singing_ ,” Héctor hissed. “Our act is a team effort, Ernesto. Or have you finally decided to give up on Ernesto y Héctor?”

                “I’ve thought about it!” Ernesto snapped, finally losing his cool façade. “ _Ever_ since you met that woman, you’ve abandoned me! How can I believe you want this if it’s always ‘ _Ayyy_ , I miss Coco’ or ‘Imelda misses me so much’.” He took a step forward, trying to reach for Héctor’s book. “Seriously, Héctor, share your work or I’ll…I’ll—!”

                “You’ll what? Punch out another tooth?” Héctor shot back, using his free hand to point sharply at his gold tooth. Ernesto glared hard at him, then pushed his hair back and took a breath before holding up his hands.

                “You know what? _Fine._ Take your _stupid_ songs. I don’t need them.” He narrowed his eyes at Héctor. “In fact, I don’t need _you._ So go back to Santa Cecilia. _Waste your talent_ so you can be just like _everyone else!_ ” He huffed as he looked away. “Head back to that woman and child you _miss_ so much while _I_ seize my moment.”

                Héctor’s free hand clenched into a fist, but he let out a sharp breath that ended with a “ _Fine._ ” Without another word to Ernesto, he marched to his bag and tucked the book back inside, then grabbed his guitar case. As he headed back to the door, he tried to think of a good one-liner to end their friendship with. But his brain was still so full of anger he couldn’t even begin to think.

                So all he did was open the door and walk right out.

                Let Ernesto try and be famous. Let him figure out what he’d done wrong in this partnership. Let him feel bad about losing the closest thing to family he’d ever had.

                Ernesto wasn’t Héctor’s problem anymore.

~

                Imelda, of course, was overjoyed that Héctor came home early. But she wasn’t stupid. Ernesto wasn’t with him, and despite Héctor’s blasé, “Ah, it didn’t pan out. Qué pena, but what can you do?”, he knew there was no fooling her. So after a day-long reunion with Coco that lasted right up until she dozed off in his arms, he knew there was no avoiding the conversation once she was in bed.

                “So what went wrong?” Imelda asked frankly as Héctor closed the door to Coco’s room. “You don’t come back early from your tours.”

                He might have _known_ there was no avoiding the conversation, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t _try._ “Like I said, it didn’t pan out,” he said with a shrug as he slipped past her. “You know how these gigs can be.”

                “That’s all? You cut a six-week trip short because a job didn’t work out?” Hector glanced back to catch Imelda setting her hands on her hips. “Shouldn’t Ernesto have come home, too?” He gave another shrug, and Imelda sighed. A moment later, her arms wrapped around his middle. “I love that you’re home, Héctor, but I can tell when something’s wrong.” She rested her cheek against his back. “You can tell me what happened, cariño.”

                He took a breath. He _could_ tell her, yes, but that didn’t mean he _wanted_ to. Even after everything, he didn’t want anyone to know that Ernesto had tried to steal his songs. That would make it too real.

                “I couldn’t do it anymore,” he murmured, setting his hands over hers. “My heart wasn’t in the performance. It was stuck right here, with you and Coco.” He squeezed her hands. “You were right, Imelda. I never wanted to become famous. If all I have is the music we make and my family…” He glanced back to give her a little smile. “…then I think I’ll be the richest man in the world.” He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, then turned to face her. He took her hands tightly as he met her eyes. “I’m done touring, for good this time.”

                Imelda pressed her lips together, holding his gaze but not looking altogether convinced. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Héctor.”

                “I _swear_ , Imelda. It’s over. From now on, I’m _here._ Here for you, here for Coco, and here for the rest of our family when it comes.”

                If there was any sting from his decision to give up performing, it was taken away by the bright smile that spread like sunshine on Imelda’s face. She jumped up with a happy cry and threw her arms around him, thanking God and pouring out how much she loved him. He held her tightly, laughing as well as he buried his face in her hair.

                Let Ernesto have his fame. Héctor had everything he needed right here.

~

“ _Where should I put my shoes_

_Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor_

_You say…_ ”

“Put them on your head!”

“That’s it, mija! _Ay, mi amor, ay mi amor.”_

                Since Héctor had given up touring, scenes like this were common. Once again, music poured out of their house at any given hour of the day, and the Riveras were—at least, in their own opinion—the happiest family in Santa Cecilia.

                Things weren’t _perfect_ , no. Money was tight. Héctor did his best to provide for his family by picking up odd jobs in nearby towns—though always close enough that he could be home before Coco went to bed. But it didn’t make as much as touring had, so Imelda took up mending and making clothes for those who couldn’t afford the local sarstre. Héctor constantly fretted over it, but Imelda really didn’t seem to mind all that much. Actually, she seemed to _like_ doing business. She knew her way around a sewing machine, and it kept their finances in check.

                Money aside, there were a few issues between them as well once the honeymoon wore off. Imelda often ran out of patience with Héctor’s antics—his quick talking still got him in trouble, which meant she had to get him _out_ of trouble. And Héctor was…a little restless now that he wasn’t performing; he picked up a few odd jobs playing for local parties or sitting out in the square with his guitar, but it wasn’t the _same_. He hadn’t so much as touched his notebook in months. But the pained look Imelda gave him every time he looked longingly at his mariachi suit stopped any thoughts of going back.

                And, despite their efforts, their little family hadn’t grown. That was hard as well.

But, at the end of it all, they had each other, and they had Coco. Even with so little money, even with the occasional fight, it was enough.

                Until, two years after Héctor swore to give up performing, there was a knock at the Rivera’s door.

                  The impromptu performance of “Un Poco Loco” came to a quick stop, and Héctor set his guitar aside and picked up Coco before walking to the door. They didn’t usually get much in the way of visitors…ah, but it was probably someone picking up a bit of sewing from Imelda. He opened the door, ready to say that he’d go fetch whatever bit of clothing they were back for, but he froze as he saw the man standing in front of his door.

                Héctor wasn’t quite sure _how_ he kept himself from slamming the door in Ernesto’s face. Later, he figured it was to avoid frightening Coco. For now, he merely met his old friend’s gaze dead-on, adjusting Coco in his arms. Ernesto looked…withdrawn? Ashamed? It was hard to pin what exactly the expression on his face was, because it was the very first time Héctor had ever seen it. He took a breath, then smiled at Coco.

                “Look, Coco! It’s your Tío Ernesto!”

                Coco tried to babble out “Ernesto” and laughed. Ernesto gave the weakest smile Héctor had ever seen from him.

                “Nice to, ah, nice to finally meet you, Coco,” he said stiffly, then looked up at Héctor. “Look, Héctor, I know it’s been a while…”

                “It’s been two years,” Héctor said, voice flat despite his smile at Coco.

                “But…I…well, I’ve got a bit of time in Santa Cecilia and I thought…we could maybe play together in the square? Just two amigos and their guitars.” Ernesto gave Héctor a hopeful smile; Héctor didn’t return it, instead tapping Coco’s nose to make her laugh.

                “Well, _amigo_ , I’m a little busy right now with mi familia,” he said, keeping his focus on Coco while he talked. He slid his eyes over to Ernesto, who looked…well, if Héctor didn’t know him, he’d say he looked crushed. He pressed his lips together.

He shouldn’t.

He really, really _shouldn’t._

“But…if you’re able to stay in town for a few hours, I’ll be able to meet you out there later.”

Ernesto’s face brightened a touch, and he nodded. “It’ll be just like old times,” he said. “Ernesto y Héctor.”

                Héctor kept his face neutral as he nodded. “Sure, Ernesto y Héctor.” He looked down as Coco squirmed in his arms. “Ah, are you ready to go, mija?” He gave Ernesto a vague nod. “I’ll see you in a bit, Ernesto,” he said, then shut the door before he could respond.

~

                This was a stupid idea. If he’d told Imelda who he was meeting, she would have said that even without knowing about the whole song-stealing business. But…well, it’d been two years, and something was bothering Ernesto. Despite everything, Héctor was still probably the best friend he had in the world.

                So, with Coco settled with Imelda and his guitar slung on his back, he made his way to the square. Ah, there was Ernesto, fully in performer mode as he talked to a few clearly star-struck girls. Héctor rolled his eyes as he walked up.

                “Hey! Aren’t you that pendejo who left a few years ago? Sylvester de la Something?” he called as he walked up to them. He leaned in to whisper to the girls, “Careful, señoritas. I know he’s got the best eyebrows in Mexico, but he can’t sing at all.”

                The girls were immediately offended on Ernesto’s behalf, but he laughed and shook his head. “And here I thought distance makes the heart grow fonder, Héctor.” He set a hand on Héctor’s shoulder and grinned at the girls. “I know he looks like a misplaced farm hand, but this man’s the one responsible for my success. But luckily for you, he’s off the market.”

                Héctor glanced over at the praise, brows slightly furrowed. Huh. Maybe time _had_ changed Ernesto. He started to grab his guitar, but Ernesto quickly grabbed his arm.

                “It’s been a delight, señoritas, but I’m afraid that my friend and I have places to be.” He gave them his signature smile, making them melt as they said their goodbyes, then pulled Héctor after him. “I think somewhere a little quieter might be in order,” he whispered. “I know it’s not Día de Muertos, but humor your old friend Ernesto for a few hours?”

                “What?” Héctor looked at Ernesto oddly, then looked up at where they were heading. _Oh._ The cemetery. “You really don’t want anyone to hear, then.”

                Ernesto shook his head quickly, practically dragging Héctor after him to their run-down corner. Once there, he let go of Héctor’s arm before sitting on a worn headstone with a huff. Héctor pressed his lips together, then pulled his guitar over his shoulder and started plucking out one of his nonsense songs. Ernesto’s mouth quirked up a little. For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

                “So why _are_ you dressed like a farmhand?” Ernesto finally asked, pressing a hand to his forehead.

                “Because I’m a farmhand.”

                “ _What_?”

                “Well, sometimes. Sometimes I help build houses, too. It depends on what jobs are in the area.” He stopped playing for a moment to flex unimpressively. “I know you could barely recognize me with all these muscles.”

                Ernesto stared at him for a long moment, then covered his face. “ _Ayyy_ , Dios _mio_. What’s happened to you, Héctor?”

                “Me? What happened to _you_?” Héctor asked as he resumed his playing. “You wouldn’t be caught dead in Santa Cecilia if you didn’t have to be here. I thought you’d be in El Distrito by now.”

                Ernesto puffed out another breath, this time running his hands through his hair. He shut his eyes and sucked in a breath.

                Then, in a very, very small voice, he admitted, “I can’t do this, Héctor. Not by myself.”

                Héctor’s fingers stilled. “Sorry, you can’t do what?”

                “I can’t live this life! It’s been disaster after disaster since you left—I’ve had to get by being a…an _auxiliary singer_ for a few different groups! And when I try to perform by myself?” He let out a dry, strangled little laugh. “I’ve been booed off the stage sometimes!” He gripped his head and looked straight at the ground for a moment, then lifted his eyes to look at Héctor pleadingly. “I need _you_ , Héctor. I’m useless without you.”

                Héctor stared at him, eyes wide in shock. In all the years he’d known Ernesto, he’d _never_ broken down like this. Part of his brain told him to be suspicious, but…Ernesto was practically _family._ He compromised with himself by starting to play again and avoiding any sort of response.

                “Héctor, _please_ ,” Ernesto pleaded as he got to his feet. “Come with me for one more tour. That’s it, just one more. I just…you’re a _genius_ , Héctor.”

                Oh. _Genius._ It’d been a while since anyone had called him that. He glanced up at Ernesto, then shook his head.

                “I can’t leave, Ernesto,” Héctor said, nonsense tune getting a little more intricate as he turned slightly.

                “Why?”

                “Because…”

                “I _know_ about your family, aside from them.” Ernesto stepped around Héctor to keep his gaze. “Farm work isn’t your passion. You must be miserable.”

                “I’m not… _miserable._ ” At Ernesto’s disbelieving look, Héctor huffed and turned around again. “Look, it’s not ideal, but it’s just temporary. Imelda’s apparently found someone who’s willing to teach me to make shoes, so if I can do that…”

                “Oh, _yes._ Héctor Rivera, _zapatero._ Just like you always wanted.” Ernesto set a hand on Héctor’s shoulder to turn him around. “Héctor, I’m just asking for _one_ more tour.” He kept his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it as he sighed. “I know that last time…wasn’t good. _I_ wasn’t good.” He looked up at Héctor with hopeful eyes. “But this time is different! This time, it _really will_ be Ernesto y Héctor. Just the two men from Santa Cecilia who want to share their music with the world.”

                Héctor pressed his lips together hard as his tune quickened. “I really can’t, Ernesto,” he said stiffly. “I gave up performing.”

                “You _what?!_ ”

                He finally stopped playing as he threw his hands up. “I missed so much while we were touring, Ernesto! Coco took her first steps and I wasn’t here! I can’t miss any more of my daughter’s life. And I promised Imelda…”

                Ernesto sighed. “Ah, _Imelda._ ”

                “Ernesto, if you say a _single word_ …”

                “I know, I know. She’s your _diosa_ ,” Ernesto sighed. “But if you’ll make all these allowances for her, why won’t she do the same for you?”

                “What?”

                Ernesto shrugged before crossing his arms. “It’s your life, Héctor, you can choose what you want to do. But you’re, what, twenty-one now? You’re too young to give up something you love so much.” When Héctor opened his mouth, he quickly added, “Don’t tell me ‘I just need the music.’ We performed together for _years_ , you think I didn’t notice the…the _joy_ you had whenever you got in front of a crowd? Don’t you miss that?”

                Héctor squirmed a bit. He _did_ miss it. It’d been easy to cast that part of himself aside when he was mad at Ernesto, but…even with his promise, even with his _family_ , it got harder to stay away every month. He shut his eyes and sighed, then opened them as Ernesto touched his arm.

                “Just _one_ tour, amigo,” he said quietly. “That’s it. And if you really can’t stand it, it’s over. No màs, se acabó.” He gave a small, hopeful smile. “Just… _please,_ Héctor. Give me one last chance to make both of our dreams come true.”

                Héctor looked away, gripping his guitar tightly. If he could leave at any time…but Imelda. But _Coco…_

                Ernesto suddenly pat his shoulder. “I’ll…let you think over it, okay? I’ll be in town for a couple days. If you decide to join me, just come find me.” He smiled. “Look, I know where you belong, and it’s on a stage, sharing your joy and your songs with everyone in the world. And if Imelda _really_ loves you for who you are, then she’ll see that, too.”

                Héctor looked up at Ernesto quietly, then sighed and shook his head. “I’ll see you, Ernesto,” he said, then made his way out of the cemetery.

~

                “So how’s Ernesto?”

                Héctor jumped at Imelda’s greeting once he stepped inside, and she laughed.

                “What, you thought I wouldn’t hear about Santa Cecilia’s local celebrity coming back?” she teased, then crossed her arms, face suddenly serious. “Did you make him apologize for whatever he did to you?”

                “He, uh, he did that himself. Apparently he’s having a hard time. He can’t write a lick, you know, and that’s hurting his performance.”

                “ _Good._ ”

                Héctor looked up at her, brows drawn. “ _Good_?”

                Imelda frowned. “I still don’t know what happened between you two, but anyone who hurts my husband _deserves_ whatever happens to him.”

                 “ _Ay_ , that’s a little harsh, diosa.” He looked down at his guitar, tapping his fingers on it awkwardly. How did he mention this? “He, ah…ha, well, he actually wants me to go back on tour with him.”

                “And you said no.” When Héctor gave a shrug, her eyes widened. “You said _yes?_ ”

                “I haven’t said anything.”

                Imelda took a step toward him, piercing eyes focused on him. “You told him you gave up performing, didn’t you? That you’re focusing on your family?”

                “Yes, but…” He swallowed. “Imelda, I _miss_ it. I…Maybe if we can find a way to...I mean, performing got us _so_ much more money, so you can stop…” He stopped as she suddenly let out a bitter laugh.

                “ _Oh_ , Dios mio, I should have seen this coming. ‘When I said that I was giving up performing for our family? That…was a lie’,” she mocked.

                “It wasn’t a lie!” he snapped, then let out a breath. “Look, we can find a way around this. You and Coco could come with me and…”

                “Oh, because _that’s_ such a good environment for a little girl.” Imelda covered her eyes with a groan. “Héctor, _please,_ don’t make such a stupid decision because _Ernesto_ thinks it’s a good idea. I thought we were past this.”

                “It doesn’t have to do with Ernesto, it has to do with _me_.” Héctor took a step toward her, face pained. “I shouldn’t have to choose between my family and my music. I don’t see why I can’t have both!”

                “Have you found a way to be in two places at once?” Imelda snapped, then held her head as she huffed out a breath. “Coco should have her papá here with her. You really want to deny her that?”

                “I’ll come back! I _always_ come back! And if I get too homesick, I’ll cut things short and…”

                “And then what? Leave again when you get too antsy?” When Héctor didn’t respond, she threw her hands up. “I thought you’d finally _changed_ , Héctor.”

                Héctor stood up straight as her words pierced his heart. “ _Oh_. So I was supposed to _change._ Of course, why didn’t I see that? Why would you ever actually fall in love with some _vago_ from the plaza?”

                “ _Estás loco?_ I turned my back on my family! They didn’t want me to have _anything_ to do with a mariachi like you. They didn’t even come to our wedding! They’ve never even _seen_ Coco! You think that was easy? You think I would do that for anyone _but_ the love of my life?” She stood up straight, glaring up at him. “Sometimes you have to make _choices_ , Héctor. And I thought you _had_ made your choice, but apparently I was wrong.”

                “But how can I choose between two parts of _myself_?” Héctor asked frantically. “I’m a _musician_ , Imelda! I was long before I met you and in my heart, I still _am_. And not performing…it’s _killed_ me inside _._ I haven’t written anything in over a year! I try to scratch that itch with going to the plaza, but I _need_ to go and share my music. I’ll go crazy if I don’t!”

                Imelda stared at him for a long moment. Her eyes started to shine, but she stubbornly refused to let any tears fall.

                “Fine,” she said, voice sharp. “ _Fine._ Go with Ernesto, then. Leave us. If your heart isn’t with us, then you don’t deserve to be a part of this family at all. Get out.”

                “Im—”

                “ _Get. Out._ ”

                He swallowed hard, then set his mouth in a hard line. “ _Fine._ Just let me say goodbye to Coco.”

                Imelda gave a sharp nod, then quickly turned to go into their room. Héctor watched as she slammed the door, then huffed as he headed for Coco’s room. _Fine._ He’d go. If Imelda didn’t want that part of him, then she didn’t have to have _any_ of him. He didn’t need her if he had his music. He would…

                His thoughts came to a stop as he walked into Coco’s room, finding her fast asleep on the floor, a toy still gripped in her hand. He swallowed as he set his guitar down and gently picked her up. She stirred and peeked her eyes open.

                “Papá?”

                He managed a little smile. “You played too hard, mija.” He kissed her head tenderly as he hugged her close. “Papá’s going to go on a trip. Do you remember, when you were very little, what I promised you?” Coco shook her head, rubbing her eyes. “Whenever I had to leave, I told you that I’d _always_ sing your lullaby to you at the same time every night, no matter where I was. Nine o’clock, right when you go to bed.” He stroked her hair for a moment, throat tightening.

He was making a mistake. But what would happen if he never tried? He’d seen the people around the town and around the country who’d given up; he’d seen broken families full of resentment. If he didn’t take this chance, things might be even worse, for him and for Coco.

                “Papá?”

                He swallowed. “Mija, can you promise me something? Whenever it’s nine o’clock, I want you to sing your lullaby, too. That way we’re singing together, just like we do at home.” He gave her a slightly trembling smile. “I’ll always be able to hear you. And, if you listen _really_ hard, you’ll be able to hear me, too. Okay?”

                Coco smiled and nodded. He kissed her forehead.

                “That’s my girl.” He set her down on her bed, then picked up his guitar and started to play “Remember Me.” He tried to keep his voice steady as he sang, eyes stinging as Coco joined him. The moment they finished, he set the guitar down and hugged her again.

                “I’ll be back soon, mija,” he murmured, then peppered her face with kisses to make her laugh. “Just remember me while I’m gone.” He let out a breath, then gave her a smile. “Now, we don’t want you falling asleep on the floor again. Let’s get you tucked in.”

                Coco dived under the covers with a smile, and Héctor stayed by her side, stroking her hair until she fell asleep. Once she had stilled, he kissed her forehead once more before getting to his feet and stepping out.

                Right in the middle of the main room was a suitcase, with his old mariachi suit and notebook thrown haphazardly on top. The door to their room was still firmly shut; it was obvious that Imelda didn’t want to say goodbye.

Héctor hesitated as he looked down at the pile of his things. He could apologize. He could let Ernesto leave and keep his family together. Swallowing his pride wasn’t terribly hard for him…

                But, _ay_ , what about his music?

                He sucked in a breath and knelt down to tuck his notebook into his suitcase, then slung his guitar on his back and picked up his things. He took one last look at the bedroom door, then walked out of the house.

                He hadn’t gotten far before he heard the door open. He turned, eyes wide, and promptly jumped back as glass crashed at his feet before the door slammed shut. He crouched down to see what had been thrown at him, carefully pushing aside the glass and picking up the paper inside.

                _Ah._ The picture he’d sent Imelda years ago.

                He swallowed, then folded the picture up and tucked it into his pocket. He stood up and looked up at the house. The windows were empty and dark; even so, he could _just_ make out a figure in their bedroom window staring out at him. He held up a hand in farewell.

                He knew he’d be back. He’d get the cold shoulder. He might never be able to win back Imelda completely. But he always, _always_ would come back to his goddess and his Coco.

**Author's Note:**

> *I am not at all an expert in Mexican slang (especially Mexican slang from the 20s/30s), and I don't speak Spanish, so my usage in this is entirely based on asking friends (especially Hattie_hat), the little bits I've heard in my life and a lot of googling. Apologies if I got anything wrong.
> 
> *The songs Imelda sings are "La Adelita" and "Caminito de Contreras"--the first fits in with the time-frame, but I can't get a solid answer of when the second one was made. (Lucha Reyes died in 1944, so it can't be too far off.)
> 
> *UPDATE: So I guess now we have dates and I didn't realize zapateria was founded in 1921, which threw off my time frame (I was basing it around late 20's-early 30's) until I was about 70% done with the fic, SO historical accuracy's kind of a wash. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Also these babies are WAY younger than I anticipated. Welp, hope you enjoyed it regardless!
> 
> *SAW STUFF ABOUT THE NOVELIZATION LITERALLY 3 MINUTES AFTER POSTING THIS SO CANON DIVERGENCE I GUESS.
> 
> *NEW UPDATE:  
> [Fuoco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuoco/pseuds/Fuoco) drew some [ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL FANART](http://fuocogo.tumblr.com/post/170699291687/hi-im-reading-the-liberties-youre-taking-by) AND YOU ALL SHOULD LOOK AT IT AND CRY LIKE I DID
> 
> *Not really an update but something I guess I could mention: Most of the stuff I write gets published here, but I also post a LOT of drabbles and things over at [my tumblr](http://slusheeduck.tumblr.com), if you want to look for more Coco fluff and feels!


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